


Blue Christmas

by cells55



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M, s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cells55/pseuds/cells55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My secret santa fic for erinmarlow (don't know her ao3 tag). Danny reflects post-XPST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seaavery1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaavery1/gifts).



> The prompt was: Mine would be something inspired by the Elvis version of ‘Blue Christmas.’ Basically Mindy and Danny are separated by something at Christmas. Doesn't necessarily have to be angst.  
> Well, naturally, I went with angst, but hopefully not too dark an ending. I'm sorry it's so short, but the writing monster is against me at the moment. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!

_I'll have a Blue Christmas without you_

_I'll be so blue thinking about you_

_Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree_

_Won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me_

_And the when those blue snowflakes start fallin'_

_That's when those blue memories start callin'_

_You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white_

_But I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas_

_**********_

_So much of his life was spent looking out of wind_ ows, observing other people's precious moments. The few precious moments he had experienced had usually been followed with calamity and a swift exit stage left. He came to realise that if you no longer had expectations, then nothing could reach you like that again, nothing could slap the precious moment from your hand and grind it under their heel. Low stakes. The only way.

 

So what the hell had possessed him, then? Why did he spend four weeks listening to that goddamn song, watching the video over and over like a teenager obsessed with MTV, clearing a little dance floor in his living room so he wouldn't keep sliding in to the coffee table?

 

The reason was simple, really, and it was also down below, making out with some lawyer instead of him.

 

Christmas would always smell like sugar - gingerbread dust all over his hands - and it would always look like this. The distance between what he wanted and what he ended up with growing greater each year. His mom used to listen to records while she made the cookie sheets. They were usually women with big voices and breaking hearts, begging a man to stay with them. She would sway along, like a seasick sailor, and close her eyes for the chorus. She really believed that a few verses could save a relationship – that it was the height of romance, despite all that had happened to her that proved the contrary. If she was standing there at the window with him now, her voice would have those fond but sharp edges, pointing out that he had let this happen, but that only he could change it back again. She was a born optimist. He was not.

 

He turned away, brushing his hands on his pants, leaving a sticky smear behind and for once, not caring in the slightest. Back in the main office area, the party was in full swing; someone had clearly smuggled in alcohol, because Betsy was singing, sweetly off-key, in to the microphone, and Morgan swayed in front of her, Christmas candle aloft like a lighter at a concert. To be young and drunk and carefree. Well, he could be one of those tonight, at least.

 

He walked home; the subway seemed to dredge up too many unwelcome thoughts, while the cold air helped sterilise them. The iciness seemed to seep in to his toes and slowly move up his legs, but he didn't mind it. It was all a distraction, just what he needed.

 

Two whiskeys in, he noticed his phone was buzzing. He tried to blink away his blurred vision to read the text:

 

"Danny, you are a constant surprise! Thank you so much again for my amazing gift. You sure as hell can move. Merry Christmas, tiny dancer. See you in the new year xxx"

 

Maybe it wasn't all lost, after all.


End file.
